The High Druid of Shannara Trilogy

He set his jaw. “Everything.”


Traunt Rowan nodded slowly and started to rise. But as he did so he reached down for the muddied staff tucked under the bench beneath Pen’s feet and pulled it free. “Well, then, it will come as something of a surprise to you to discover that this simple staff you have been using as a crutch for your injured leg is actually something more than it appears.”

He held it out for Pen to inspect, keeping it just out of reach as he balanced it loosely in the palm of one hand. Pen felt all the strength go out of his body. He had thought the staff forgotten and his secret safe. He had thought the Druids fooled.

“You did think this just a simple staff, didn’t you?” the other persisted.

Pyson Wence had come over to stand beside him now, his dark face furrowed in surprise. Apparently he had missed seeing what it was, even if Traunt Rowan had not. “What are you talking about?”

The Southlander ran his hands slowly up and down the length of wood, and as he did so the dried mud and dirt fell away and the surface turned bright and smooth, revealing the intricately carved network of runes hidden beneath. He blew gently to clean it of any remaining flecks of dust, then used one end of his sleeve to polish the wood.

“There,” he said, smiling cheerfully at Pen. “You can see for yourself. What do you make of this? Pyson?” He glanced over at the other Druid. “Isn’t this a surprise?”

Pyson Wence started for Pen, his face flushed with rage, but Traunt Rowan held him back. “No, what are you doing? No need for that! You heard Pen; he didn’t know what it was. He probably just picked it up while walking around the forest and kept it because he needed a crutch. Isn’t that right, Pen?”

Pen said nothing, his eyes fixed on the other, watching him the way a mouse would a snake. Traunt Rowan had known all along. He had been leading Pen around by the nose, letting him fabricate whatever story he wished, because in the end he knew the one thing that counted—that what the boy was really hiding was the secret of the staff.

“Little man, I will see you hung from meat hooks and gutted before this matter is finished!” Pyson Wence hissed at him. His gaze shifted to Traunt Rowan. “What are we waiting for? Let me have him now, and we will know the truth of things quick enough!”

Traunt Rowan shook his head. “Not until Shadea is done with him. I don’t want to have to explain to her why we failed to keep him alive long enough for her to question him.” He smiled at Pen. “This isn’t going to work out the way you wanted, Pen. Not for you or your parents. You shouldn’t have tried to be so clever. You’re only a boy, and boys always think themselves much more clever than they really are.”

Pen was having trouble breathing. He knew he should say or do something, but he had no idea what it should be. It was all he could do to keep himself from falling apart completely.

Traunt Rowan watched him a moment longer, then shrugged. “Cat got your tongue?” He hefted the staff and tossed it to Pyson Wence. “What do you make of it, Pyson? Can you read the markings? Elfish, I think. Very old.”

The Gnome studied the runes a moment, then shook his head impatiently. “Nothing I’ve ever seen. We might find something on it back at Paranor, in the books. What difference does it make?”

“I don’t know. Pen, do you?” Traunt Rowan looked at him. “Anything about these markings look familiar? No?” He pursed his lips. “Maybe we should see if they’re even real.”

He took the staff out of Pyson’s hands, dropped it carelessly to the floor, and pointed at it. Blue fire exploded from his fingers, engulfing the darkwand. Pen gasped in spite of himself, leapt to his feet, and tried to snatch the darkwand back. Almost casually, Traunt Rowan backhanded him into the wall so hard that he almost blacked out. On the floor, the darkwand jumped at the touch of the searing fire, but to his surprise refused to burn. The Druid tried again, the fire flashing from his fingers in a fresh wave, licking at and engulfing the wood. But again, nothing happened. When the fire ceased, the wood was left untouched.

Pyson Wence snatched up the darkwand and smashed it against the bulkhead, but the staff bounced away unmarked and unbroken.

“Magic, of a very powerful kind,” Traunt Rowan declared softly, looking down at a dazed Pen. “Is this meant for the Ard Rhys, Pen? I have a feeling it is. A talisman of some sort, to be used to free her.”

Pen tried to keep his expression blank, his feelings from showing on his face or reflecting in his eyes. He tried to pretend he didn’t feel anything, that nothing that was happening mattered. But pain ratcheted through him as he slumped on the bench, his head throbbing with the blow he had taken, and his hopes for achieving anything of what he had set out to accomplish vanished.